


powder your face with sunshine

by hellhoundsprey



Series: winkline bingo 2021 [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Discovery Kink, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knifeplay, Knives, Multi, Painplay, Puberty, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest, Team Everyone Switches, Threesome - M/M/M, sam winchester is the worst influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29957904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Sam’s lashes tickle against his cheek, and this. This is his favorite. (Jack and Sam are 14, Dean is 18.)winkline bingo 2021: 21 knives
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jack Kline/Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Jack Kline/Sam Winchester
Series: winkline bingo 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026918
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	powder your face with sunshine

Jack fixes the butterfly knife in Sam’s hand with the focus of someone expecting to get his eye gouged out if he didn’t.

Just behind Jack’s focal point, Sam stares right at him.

His knuckles shift as he adjusts his grip. Gets ready.

Sam draws a tiny, tiny breath. His lashes flutter like an insect, once.

~

“Maybe another time,” says Sam, later, in the curb in front of their house. He’s still holding onto the tangle of their fingers in the barely-there summer night darkness. He blinks, and his jaw flinches, and he says, “My brother is home. I don’t know.”

Jack breathes, “I don’t mind.”

Sam smiles, pinches his mouth thin with excitement. Jack smiles back, rocks to the balls of his feet. A giggle; Jack can’t tell which one of them did it.

Behind them, the front door and screen door bang open.

“HEY, SAMANTHA. Oh,” and Jack freezes even before those eyes land on him across the yard, and Sam’s already turned and let go of Jack’s hands and barks,

“Ugh, _Dean_ ,”

and Sam’s big brother smirks, barefoot and topless. He hollers, “Your little boyfriend can have some dinner too if he wants,” and Jack flashes hot.

Can’t move until Sam (now-red-faced Sam) throws him an apologetic, hopeful look and murmurs, “You wanna?” and Jack nods, mouth shut tight, and sweats.

He hurries into the house after Sam. Toes his sneakers off like Sam does it, closes the doors behind himself. As Sam sets the many chain links and locks in place, he clears his throat before he hollers, “Jack’s not my boyfriend,” and nearly immediately, Dean replies, “Totally is,” and Jack’s never wanted to kiss Sam as badly as right now, in the middle of their mudroom. Heaps of jackets and coats and all sorts of tools, boots and one pair of giant crocks and Sam’s falling-apart Converses and Jack’s off-brand sneakers.

Sam urges, “C’mon,” and Jack follows on his heels, and suddenly he realizes he has no idea if and how he will be able to get down a single bite of food like this.

His eyes fly along—everything. The beat-up furniture, taken care of but too many moves and two growing boys with access to too many pocketknives did leave their traces. Cozy, despite the damages. Warm and clean.

A rug underneath the table, a lamp dangling just above. Scooby-Doo runs on an old TV set. Dean’s already set the table for two and gives Jack a measured glance as he puts down a third set. Jack hurries to sit his ass down, to wait patiently with his hands in his lap. On a second thought—looks down to his hands. Not too dirty, but...he wipes them on his jeans for good measure.

“Friday night special,” announces Dean upon setting down the steaming hot pot in the middle of the table. It sloshes dangerously, but nothing spills. “Three bean surprise.”

Sam flatly comments, “Yay,” and gets an immediate clap to the back of his head, and he slaps after Dean’s hand and complains with a harsh, “Hey!”

“You don’t want any? Fine. Means more for me.”

Dean sits down with them and starts dividing the meal into their three plates. Despite his statement, the servings turn out evenly distributed. Jack utters a quiet _thank you_ as Dean hands him his share, and Dean gives him another suspicious glance on the side.

On Jack’s right, Sam has already grabbed his spoon and stirs through the semi-thick stew in front of him. He wrinkles his nose. “Can I go get the ketchup?”

“No, you can’t.”

Sam groans.

“I poured all that was left in there already, chill.” Dean picks up his spoon as well and begins to eat. Sam groans louder but shovels a first spoonful into his mouth.

Jack, who had already folded his hands underneath the table in (what he thought was) wise foresight, unclasps his fingers and quickly follows the brothers’ example without further comment.

Dean grabs the remote and turns down the volume. His nose and shoulders look horribly sunburnt. He chews, keeps his eyes on the TV. “So. What are you guys up to?”

Sam says, “Nothing,” and shrugs.

So Jack agrees, “Nothing.”

Dean’s eyes pan to his brother, to Jack. One of his eyebrows is lifted and he keeps Sam fixed with his gaze until Sam blurts, “What,” and, “it’s none of your business what I do,” and Dean looks at Jack then, again, and Jack doesn’t have anything witty to say. All he knows is that his face begins to feel hot, and it’s around then that Dean scoffs and looks down into his food and doesn’t push further.

“Sure, whatever,” and Jack does his best to keep up with Sam’s eating speed.

~

Kissing Sam feels like...walking on clouds.

Not that Jack would know what _that’s_ like, but. He has an idea.

Something like kissing Sam, obviously.

Warm and amazing. Sam’s nose rubs against Jack’s, presses into Jack’s cheek. Their chins grind. They breathe the same air, hold each other close.

Sam gasps and blurts, “Fuck,” just when he’s attempted to push his fingers from Jack’s belt up underneath Jack’s tee, just when someone bangs their fist against the other side of the door and yanks at the door handle in the very next moment.

“Fuck OFF, Dean!” and Jack just stumbles, and Sam helps him but pushes them apart at the same time. Dean manages to jam his hand through the gap between frame and door and flicks on the light to startle them further. “Fuck you, get LOST!”

Still in shock, Jack is flushed from head to toe for the mischievous giggle behind the door. Sam uses all his might to throw himself against the door and close it despite Dean’s efforts from the other side.

Dean is laughing, still.

“Leave me ALONE! Go make out with your stupid CAR!”

Muffled, “Hey, low blow,” but the door doesn’t get shoved open again, and Jack imagines hearing footsteps leading away and downstairs.

He waits with bated breath until Sam finally decides, “Okay,” hushed and relieved. He presses another kiss right onto Jack’s mouth as he leans over to turn off the light once more, drowns them in darkness. He murmurs, “Sorry,” but Jack’s already forgiven and forgotten.

Sam walks him backwards until the back of Jack’s knees hit resistance. He pushes down on Jack’s shoulders to make him sit down and Jack hums blindly and tilts his head right back up for more kisses. Sam guides him to lay down and climbs atop of him, straddles Jack’s hips and cup his face with both of his huge, beautiful hands.

Jack huffs, happy. Roams his hands up Sam’s thighs, his flanks, his arms. Pushes their tongues back and forth between their mouths, and Sam’s lashes tickle against his cheek, and this. This is his favorite.

Just Sam and him. Nothing else matters.

Sam grinds his ass down with intent, and Jack flinches. _Unfs_ and settles his unsure hands back on Sam’s hips. Feels his dick going the last mile until it fully digs up against Sam’s ass, and even through two pairs of jeans and underwear, it’s too much. The sheer thought makes Jack’s hips squirm upward, hump right back at Sam.

Jack gasps, wide-eyed in the dark.

Sam sits back. Yanks his tee over his head. His overlong hair flops into his face, his eyes. He’s breathing just as hard as Jack.

Jack’s hands push—up, along Sam’s waist, Sam’s ribs. Sam leans back down to kiss him again, scoots lower so they’re rubbing dick to dick. Frantic, now. (Jack couldn’t think of anything else since Sam had finally uttered, “Yeah, okay—but—don’t mind him, all right? He’s just a jerk.” All day. Constantly. Sam’s boyfriend.)

Sam’s just as fast as him. Shudders, once, hard, and Jack’s straining so hard he lifts them both off the bed for a second. It’s blinding before it’s over.

Wet and breathless, stumbling. Jack’s fingers uncurl from around Sam’s skinny, bare shoulders. Still painting, they look at each other. Until Sam smiles, and chuckles, and Jack can follow along. Can touch their foreheads together and sigh and giggle and wipe his sweaty hands on Sam’s even sweatier back.

“Feel good?”

Jack nods.

“Me too.”

~

Jack’s looking down at the dangling tip of his shoe. It’s a nice day. Lots of sun, as always.

He murmurs, “Thank you,” as Jackie hands him the ice pack, and he presses it to his cheek. He looks at the floor, the wall. Not Sam.

Sam won’t leave his side during lunch. Jack doesn’t want anything more than to let him hold his hand. He gets a fresh ice pack and looks on from a safe distance while his classmates do PE.

Sam interlaces their pinkie fingers as they walk home. Secret. It’s everything.

Jack hurts. “It’s really okay, Sam.”

“It’s really not.”

“Please,” he says (asks). They keep walking. “I don’t want to drag you into this.”

He makes them stop two blocks prior to their complex. Lets Sam snake their fingers together, all twenty of them, and Sam frowns, deep in thought. Still not done letting it go, and Jack repeats around a careful smile,

“It’s okay.”

He crosses the last distance by himself. Lets himself inside, into the elevator, into dad’s and his apartment.

~

There are tears in Jack’s eyes.

“I’ll—Sam, I, I think I’m gonna be sick...”

Sam’s eyes flick up to him, big and blown and worried.

Jack can feel him suckling. Can taste the iron in the air.

As Sam pops off his hand and asks, “Really?” it doesn’t even bleed anymore. Doesn’t even hurt.

Jack stares at the clean cut between his pointer finger and his thumb. One big slash and it’s not _that_ deep, but.

Oh, there it is. The next gush.

“Shit.” Sam ducks back down, tucks Jack’s hand back into his mouth. Jack can feel—Sam’s tongue probing at his wound, the fresh blood, like a dog would. Jack’s breath rattles.

When Sam kisses him, after, all it takes is for him to slip his hand across the bulge in front of Jack’s jeans once, twice, and Jack’s coming. Trembling and messy and drenched in sweat, tasting the remnants of his own blood and Sam’s starved spit and Sam gasps, “Oh,” and, “sorry, I didn’t know,” but Jack just throws his arms around him and doesn’t let go.

They lay down like that for a while. Jack wakes to Sam stroking his hair, watching him. Jack knuckles his eye. The piece of cloth tied around his hand takes him aback for a second. Until he remembers.

Sam hums, “You okay?” and Jack nods, look around, to the tiny window just below the roof.

“What time is it?”

“Like, uhm, five-thirty? I dunno.”

“Sorry...”

“Hey, no worries.”

Sam tucks him against his chest. Jack curls up. It’s humid in their hideout at this hour. The sun beats down on the wood. Sam smells like...Sam. (Sweat and dirt and Jack’s mouth. The hint of body wash and (failed) deodorant he shares with his brother. Salt.) Jack noses against a bare patch of skin. Sam’s throat. He inhales, here, and closes his eyes. Sam stirs. Giggles,

“That tickles,”

and Jack scoots even closer, buries his face even deeper.

Throws one leg over Sam’s hip and pulls him in. Sam holds him. Breathes steady and warm into Jack’s hair. Keeps him safe.

He doesn’t stop Jack from worming his hand between them, into the front of Sam’s jeans. Just huffs, trapped, and is already chubbed fat. Jack nuzzles against that pulse point, squeezes his (intact) hand.

Jack kisses—Sam’s throat. Along the jut of his jaw. All that sweat and grime. Jack’s own dick stirs inside of his crusted underwear.

Jack gets him out all the way, eventually. Makes Sam lie down on his back, watch him. Strokes him, slow and easy, and Sam’s eyes are glazed over already, and his stomach ebbs right with his nasal breath.

With their eyes locked, Jack bows deeper. Until his lips touch the tip of Sam’s dick and Sam’s face derails for that, for _Jack_ , and Jack’s stomach cringes—wonderfully. Proud.

Croaked, “Jack,” and Jack does it again. Slips it into his mouth, this time, and Sam nearly sits up in shock. Watches him, though. Lets him. Allows him.

Jack swivels his tongue like he does when they’re kissing. Just feels it out, and—it seems to be working for Sam. He looks—positively devastated. Mouth hanging open, eyes fluttering.

“I’m, I—!”

Sam’s hand swoops in to blanket Jack’s around the base of his cock, holding him steady.

He manages, “It’s, I’m—dirty,” but it’s choked-off and Jack’s already laving his tongue around the underside of the head, and he—he really doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

Sam comes fast this way. Slips his hand from Jack’s own into Jack’s hair and drives his hips up when it happens, and he blurts, “Shit, sorry,” but Jack only gags once, and it didn’t even hurt.

Sam is squirmy, after. Licks deep into Jack’s mouth and Jack’s chest seizes with how nasty that is—that Sam’s licking his own taste out of him without even caring. Soon, Jack finds himself on his back with Sam straddling his stomach, his face cradled in both of Sam’s huge hands.

“Want me to do yours?” (Sam is looking him deep in the eyes for that. Like he’s searching for something.)

Jack mumbles, “Uhm, o-only if you want to,” and Sam doesn’t even have to finish up working his jeans back open for Jack to know that this is gonna be over very, very quickly.

Sam mouthes warm at Jack’s balls as he rucks the denim down, and Jack’s hands are scrambling to hold on. He gets Sam’s hair, and he thinks his hips are bucking before Sam can even do anything; barely wrapped his lips around Jack’s dick and Jack’s already finishing up.

It’s awkward, and Jack will worry that he’s hurt Sam, later. Involuntary scratches and the cut on his hand hurts with how he squeezes his fist in Sam’s hair without meaning to, push-pulls him down on his dick and gasps stupid for—Sam, swallowing around him, hollowing out his cheeks. Caught between Jack’s lap and Jack’s hands but all pliant, so so soft.

Jack apologizes when he finally regains enough control to let Sam up.

Sam tells him, “It’s okay,” before he goes back down.

Jack’s all jelly where it counts.

He can’t look away from—Sam, closing his eyes. Taking him down all the way, blinking up at him as he works him inside his throat. Pulls off again, smiles.

“You like it?”

~

What he is doing doesn’t have much to do with thinking, which becomes apparent when he grabs the drainpipe and there comes the distant sting of the still-healing cut from a couple of days ago. Jack’s pounding heart makes it easy to shake off the pain, keep going.

He had been listening—if they are asleep already. At home, at all.

When Jack knocks at the closed window, he can see Sam stirring in his bed before he catches sight of—Jack. On the roof.

He scrambles to get the window open immediately.

Jack climbs in. To Jack’s right: “Are you fucking kidding me?” To Jack’s left: Sam, pale, whispering just as shrill as his brother:

“What are you _doing_?!”

Jack thinks he tells them, “Sorry.”

“Sam!”

“I know, just—shut up!”

It’s cool in their room with the ceiling fan whirring above their heads. Lights out, and Sam whips his head to check behind his back, into the direction of the door. He’s in an undershirt, boxers; rakes his nails along his throat before and when he turns back towards Jack—confused but worried, immediately.

Jack shouldn’t have come. Again, “I’m sorry,” and Sam wipes at his temple, and that kinda hurts. Jack’s throat begins to go tight. “I, I wasn’t—I—didn’t know where else to go…”

Another glance towards the door; two hands for Jack, pulling him in, rubbing his back. “Hey, it’s okay.” Jack keeps it down on instinct. Makes him go numb, but that’s okay. He made it. That’s all that counts.

“You’re _so_ dead when Dad finds out about this.”

Sam snarls, “He won’t,” and helps Jack into his bed, tucks him in. “Are you hungry?” Sam pulls out a half-gone bag of Cheetos from underneath the bed before Jack can even decide if he should lie or not. He eats, curled-in. In the other bed, Dean groans, runs his hands back through his hair. He is naked but for the sheet bunched up in his lap, over his legs.

Sam kneels in front of his own bed. Eyes the door; back to Jack. “Did he kick you out or something?”

Jack nods.

Sam sighs; frowns.

Dean lies back down with a groan. His pillow bunches up hard, wedged between his ear and his shoulder. “I’m not even here.”

~

Jack wakes to gentle shoves. Arms around him, holding him. Hands, squeezing.

Sam’s voice tells him, “Hey,” and, “we gotta get up,” and Jack knows, but he doesn’t want to. “Meet you down the street in ten, okay? I’ll grab a waffle for you.”

Jack checks the surroundings before he makes his way back down the roof, the drainpipe. Casual stroll, act like nothing even happened. Sam catches up with him as promised.

A bottle of water, that half-thawed waffle. “Sorry,” says Sam, like this is embarrassing somehow. Like he’s the one in yesterday’s clothes, unbrushed teeth.

Chewing, walking. “Did he say anything?”

“What, Dad?” Sam’s brow furrows. “Nah, no.”

“Okay.”

His teachers give him an annoyed look. Empty-handed, no homework, no nothing. He has to borrow papers, pencils. “Again, Jack? Really?” and, “I’ll have to write a note to your dad this time,” and Jack just nods. He understands.

They put him into detention. Mrs. Lawrence has enough pity for him that she lets him pick a bunch of books from the library—non-fiction though, young man, you hear? He hears. He’s grateful.

Poetry and wars. Cakes and guns.

Hours, like this.

The day passes without a second glance.

~

“My dad’s not home,” says Sam, like it’s some code. Jack is still learning.

His hand inside Sam’s boxers works Sam all slow. Gets him wet.

Sam looks at him like he wants to kiss him and never stop.

TV, in the background. Cooking contest, go vote today, oh no, the _eggs_.

Lazy, like this. Their chins meet on every stray smooch. The couch is stuffy-warm against Jack’s clothed back. The distant gurgle of the dishwasher. The squelch of Sam’s dick in his fist.

By the time Sam helps him haul his shirt over his head, Jack is so sweaty he can taste it on his upper lip. Sam sits up to shove his boxers down, makes his dick slap up against his stomach. Jack reaches for it, and Sam lets him.

Uttered, “In your mouth?” and Sam sucks his own lips into his mouth when Jack nods, and he moves so Jack can swallow him down, can lave his tongue across the sticky head of it.

Sam has just spread his legs some more for Jack to curl his available hand around his nuts when there’s a sharp three knocks at the glass door to the veranda.

The shock slams into them so hard Jack doesn’t know how he’s not throwing up.

A splutter, and Sam jolts away, jumps to his feet—and Dean laughs, and he shoulders his way inside, grocery bags all over his arms.

Sam yells, “DUDE!” and Jack scrambles to pull his shirt back on while Sam nearly trips with how fast he’s getting back into his boxers. “Are you SERIOUS?!”

“Can’t say I didn’t knock,” and Jack stares at his knees now. Hears Dean unloading the groceries, kicking his sandals off, cracking open the fridge.

Dean got them popsicles. They eat them in queasy silence while he takes care of the kitchen, whips up some late lunch. “You eat cheese, right?” he asks Jack, and Jack nods, taken by surprise.

It’s good. Warm and fatty and spicy. Tacos, something. Jack tries the salsa after watching Dean hauling a mountain of it on top of his current bite. He doesn’t go back for it.

Jack catches how Dean snatches the waistband of Sam’s boxers as he carries the dirty dishes past him. Dean drawls, “Can you stop being mad at me?” but only gets the leg of his chair kicked, a glare. He scoffs and slumps over on the table, chin on his hand. Green, lazy eyes on Jack. Dean commiserates, “I didn’t do anything,” and Jack can just—nod.

They’re back on the couch. Dean gets up, finally, to grab himself a coke from the fridge. He uncaps it, pulls his tee over his head.

Sam jokes, “Where’s your bra?” and Dean scoffs, and Jack catches himself staring at how Dean cups his barely-anything tits like a girl, squishes them into a pretend-cleavage.

Sam’s arm is heavy around Jack’s shoulders.

Dean jokes back, “Not what you said last night,” and, in the corner of Jack’s eye, flirts his mouth back to his coke to hide a tiny smile.

Dean strolls over, one hand in his pocket, the other on his drink. He’s tall, huge. Broad-broad shoulders and freckles all over. Not skinny like Sam, not by a long run—he’s strong and you can see that. “What are you watching?” he says, like this is conversation, like earlier didn’t happen, and Jack still feels—on edge with it.

Has his knees pulled up on the couch, scratches absently at Sam’s utterly knobby, scabby knee.

Next to him, Sam says, “Nothing,” and Jack’s eyes are back on the screen when there’s a bottle being set down on the coffee table, but he _does_ look back to Dean when he sinks to his knees, easy, in front of the couch. In front of Sam.

Between Sam’s legs.

There is a quiet, dangerous moment in which Dean just looks—at Jack, right into Jack’s eyes. His face is all slack but just flushed enough that it can’t be the afternoon tiredness alone, the hot food.

Dean cups one of his huge hands over Sam’s thigh, and Jack blinks, and Dean blinks back.

Sam is very, very quiet.

Dean’s eyes pan towards his brother. His hand moves up. And up.

And up.

When Dean reaches both hands out to curl into the waistband of Sam’s boxers, Sam gasps, but doesn’t—stop him.

Caught under Sam’s arm, pressed against his side, Jack—watches.

Dean tugs the fabric low, down Sam’s too-skinny legs. Slips them off his feet and parts Sam’s legs anew, truly sits down on his haunches, feathers his hands over Sam’s thighs, his hips, his stomach.

Jack can’t even breathe.

Dean’s eyes slip back to him. Pin him.

“You know what he likes, Jack?”

Sam’s dick throbs, curls thick and thicker against his thigh. Dean’s tongue pokes out, once, to wet his lip, before he bows down.

A kiss, just shy of Sam’s navel. To the mole right there. Sam’s dick throbs soft against Dean’s clavicle he’s pressed so close.

Sam is hot-liquid against Jack’s side. A raw heartbeat and he’s staring at Dean, too.

Dean does it slow. Slow enough that once he’s reached Sam’s dick, it’s fat and plush for him.

Kisses, here, too. Along the side. For the circumcision scar, the not-weeping-yet slit. Drag of lashes, then, and eyes on Jack.

 _Watch me_ , they say; Jack thinks.

_Let me show you._

Dean slides one hand low so he can grab Sam by the base, hold him firm so he can wrap his lips around the head, suckle on that.

Sam makes a shocked little noise that sends what was left of Jack’s brain out of the window. Which startles Jack, which in turn startles _Sam_ while Dean is so calm, so soft and pretty how he nurses on Sam’s dick. Finally lets it flop from his mouth, redder and barely-slick with spit. Dean kisses along the length of it again, noses into Sam’s pubes. Lick-sucks, and Jack’s nuts pull tight in sympathy.

Dean gets a hold of Sam’s calf, hikes it high until Sam’s foot can plant itself on Dean’s shoulder, and Sam shudders for that even before Dean wraps both hands around Sam’s hip to tug him lower, _down_.

He ducks his head again to nose right behind Sam’s balls, kisses Sam’s taint. Cups Sam’s balls out of the way so he can reach better, can let Jack see the wet pink of his tongue flashing as he laps straight into Sam’s gash.

Sam’s stomach clenches like it hurts, and he whimpers like it, too.

Dean blinks before his eyes droop. Before he does it again. And again.

Broad, wet laps. He settles in with a sigh, and nobody says anything for a hot minute while he tongue-kisses Sam’s ass, right here on the couch on a Saturday afternoon.

It’s Dean who breaks the silence. “You wanna suck him off while I keep going?” and Jack doesn’t realize it’s him he’s talking to, and it’s not really a choice when he complies—just a hot non-thought: him, leaning down, Sam gasping, “Oh, _God_ ,” and Sam’s hand swoops up over Jack’s neck and into his hair, and Jack swallows as much as his throat can fit and he doesn’t—think.

Dean hums like Jack’s doing well.

Tells him, “Good boy,” before he dives back down. Takes no time at all until they have Sam squirming between them.

Panting and naked and flushed all the way down to his chest, once Jack is curious enough to look and to detach himself, and Sam kisses him, wet and wanton and dirty, and Jack moans in surprise. Fingers in his hair, hauling him in.

Sam breathes, “Fuck,” and Jack curls his lips between his teeth, and he looks between them—to Sam’s spit-smeared dick, how it taps against his stomach in time with its pulse. The dark brown of Sam’s stiff, tiny nipples. The crown of Dean’s hair, his head nudging off-beat with how he works his mouth.

Jack is gonna cream his pants.

“You ever put your fingers here, Jack? No?”

Jack agrees, “No,” and can’t hear himself right over the rush of blood in his ears.

“Your dick? _No_?” Dean’s mouth breaks into a smooth laugh for the visible shock on Jack’s face. “Hey, it’s all right. Nothing dirty about it, y’know?” He’s sliding his hand through the mess he left. Keeps it flexed to make Sam feel it, rubs him easy like that. Secret, “You wanna try?” and, when Jack just opens his dumb mouth without saying anything, “Or maybe you want him to do it to _you_?” and Jack just reels, and Sam blurts,

“Dean,”

and Dean laughs again, airy and soft and close. He nudges his face against Sam’s hip, mouths at the inside of his thigh.

Again, “ _Dean_ ,” but it sounds different this time around, and Dean tells him,

“Yeah; yeah, I got you,” and Sam makes a wounded noise upon Dean just pressing a kiss to his balls, his hand angling in and _pushing_ , and—

Oh. _Oh_.

“Ah,” and that’s Jack’s own voice, and his hand rushes to press down between his legs just in time. Dean’s eyes are hooded and soft and he helps,

“Here,”

and Jack awkwardly worms out of his shorts, his briefs. Lets Dean help, lets Sam wrap his hand around him immediately, starts to stroke him before Jack can warn, “W-wait,” but Dean leans in and slips him down his throat in one smooth slide, and that’s it, that’s all he can take.

Jack’s ass comes off the couch as he bucks up into Dean’s mouth, into the slick heat of his throat. Dean does something, sucks or swirls his tongue or both, and it’s insane, and Jack moans, grabs onto Dean’s hair and pumps his hips once, twice, before he’s entirely spent, before he sinks back on his ass.

Dean bobs his head a couple of times with his cheeks sucked in as tight as they can go, and Jack thinks to note, “Oh—oh _gosh_ ,” before Dean finally lets him go with a wet pop. Lets his dick flop onto his belly, all clean and raw.

“Did you seriously say ‘gosh’ right now?” but Sam is kissing Jack, so Jack doesn’t have to talk at all.

~

They built the playground before Jack was even born. Poured it right into the middle of the space like a perfect Tetris move. Not much sun at all, encircled by the apartment towers as it is. Better that way for small children, Jack thinks. It’s the two hours of scorching sun. The sand is still cool.

A pair of siblings plays their own little game. The shaded base of the slide is all Jack’s.

His knees are drawn up and his hands are cupped so the knife remains a secret. So he can stare at it and roll his sore tongue around in his mouth and not think of anything.

Snap: knife out. Snap: knife in. Snap: knife out.

He feathers his thumb along the sharp edge. The blunt edge. The handle.

A woman hollers down from a window, high up, loud enough for Jack’s anxiety to feel addressed. The siblings ignore her until she brings out the threats. Only then do they drag themselves off and inside.

~

Jack admits, “Yes,” so Dean tells him,

“Okay, get down there, then.”

Jack settles between Dean’s thighs. Hears Sam huffing from above but can’t look away.

Dean steadies his dick; the fat head of it pillows against the shiny-wet starburst of Sam’s asshole. Sam sinks down, finally, slow and careful and it’s beautiful, and Jack thinks to swallow, but that’s all.

Dean plucks his hand off once Sam’s halfway down his dick, puts it on Sam’s other hip instead. Spreads his legs some more and Jack’s heart jumps in-synch with Sam’s pained gasp, the careful stab of Dean’s dick to where his fingers couldn’t reach, earlier.

Dean shushes all sweet. Jack can’t tell if he’s pushing Sam down or if Sam moves on his own.

Nearly all the way. Sam lifts just to slide down again, to get used to it. Slurs, “Fuck,” and Dean pries his cheeks apart so Jack can see better. Can hear them kissing, now, the wet smack of Dean’s lips where he’s sucking at Sam’s throat, the pained little grunt of Sam, getting his ass fucked. Oh. Oh, man.

Tender, “There you go,” when Sam picks up the speed. Dean’s hands travel again, rub at Sam’s thighs, his waist, before they settle on his hips once more.

They do that for a while. Dean rolls them over at some point so Jack can crawl up to them, kiss Sam on the mouth. Can let Dean lick-kiss behind his ear, whisper, “Can I come in your little wife, huh?” and Jack nods through a gulp of breath, his own spit.

Dean makes him watch on the pull-out. Sam’s ass is so open it doesn’t close up, not at first. Just a deep, busted wide black-pink-red of insides, sticky-creamed. Dean instructs Jack to drop a mouthful of spit in there, so Jack does that. Sam makes a heartbreak noise; another when Dean does it, too.

“You _like_ that,” Dean hums. Jack can’t deny, can’t agree. Gets his wrist grabbed and guided and Dean makes him knuckle three fingers up Sam’s ass like it’s nothing, and Jack gasps, _feels_.

Soft. Like a kitten.

Dean throws a dinner together, after. Random leftovers and it’s mostly bread, really, but Jack scarfs it down, as always. Dean hums along to MTV in the background, showered and in what looks like one of their dad’s tees—a truckload of peanut butter on his knife, on his toast, later; he sucks his thumb clean. Jack’s playing footsie with Sam under the table.

The brothers tense out of nowhere, and Jack will need another few weeks until he can single out the Impala coming down the street as early as them.

Dean shoves most of his toast into his mouth before he flings it to his plate and gets up, wipes his hands on his bare thighs. Sam doesn’t say anything but his chewing has slowed, and Jack doesn’t know what to expect.

He has met John, before, of course. In front of their school, in that car, honking several times until Sam would finally stalk over, get in. Walk-hovering past Sam and him doing homework at the kitchen table, smelling of gasoline and oil and dirt and _Dean, where’d you put the goddamned tuna?_ A passing glance for Jack, if at all. Jack’s stomach rebels.

Front door, _hey Dad_ , and John’s standing in the kitchen/living room doorway before Dean can warn that _Sam has a friend over_ , and Jack straightens, and his ears feel hot.

John Winchester fixes him.

To his right, Sam growls, “We were studying,” around his current mouthful and Dean pushes past John in the doorway, squeezes one of those arms but John just keeps glaring, and Jack can’t feel his hands.

Finally: “You should have asked first.”

“If I’m allowed _to study for school_?” and no remark for Dean, slapping over the back of his head for it; Jack stares on, horrified.

“I’m,” he begins, “I’m, I can—”

“Kline. Jack, isn’t it?” Mr. Winchester wrestles his jacket off before he joins them at the table. Dean fetches him a plate, cutlery, a coke. Mr. Winchester has yet to look away from Jack. “Sam’s teacher mentioned you before.”

“Since when do you talk to my _teachers_?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” and finally, a side-eye for Sam. Back to Jack, though, unfortunately. John helps himself to the potato salad. Dean gets back to his peanut butter sandwich. “John,” says John, and extends his arm for Jack to shake his hand—huge, like the rest of him.

Jack nearly wets himself but he does manage to grab and shake. John squeezes his hand in an attempt to make him squeeze back, do it right, like Dad sometimes does. Jack does his best. John lets go.

“Jack,” says Jack.

“Pleasure to meet you, Jack.” Bread; butter. A full beard, rough skin. Curled hair like Sam’s is around his nape, dark and sharp eyes. A semi-nice shirt, not the coveralls from last time. Mr. Winchester releases Jack to guide his sole attention to his sandwich in progress. “Good to know Sammy’s finally making some friends.”

“Dad, stop it!”

“What? I haven’t done a thing.”

Sam barks, “It’s SAM,” and Dean scoffs, and Jack grabs and sips his drink just to move at all.

~

“You gotta use a lot of force. Because the ribs are in the way and shit.”

Jack blinks and nods and tries not to breathe too hard.

Sam’s knife halts past Jack’s solar plexus. Sam plucks one of his hands off the handle to fan his fingers out on Jack’s stomach instead.

“Lot of blood in here. So if there’s time, that’s possible.”

Jack says, “Hm,” and stays perfectly still.

The tip of the knife moves right above Jack’s skin. Sam turns the blade to the blunt side so he can push it in _for_ _real_ , and Jack can’t help but flinch. Doesn’t move, no, but one of his legs draws out, makes room. For nothing, really, since Sam straddles his hips. Jack just needs to—squirm, somehow.

“Softer than the chest, so it’s easier,” explains Sam, and Jack swallows because it feels weird. Not painful, just—it’s still a knife. Still Sam’s hands.

One straight line until there’s Jack’s navel. A half-circle around it and south again until the waistband of his jeans. A pause.

Sam looks up from the knife and into Jack’s eyes.

Jack keeps his arms on the floor but Sam _must_ feel the dig of his hard-on against his ass.

“Turn around. On your stomach.”

Jack is let off to do that; does that. Cheek to the dirty floor and the warmth of Sam’s body returns but it hovers, now, above and clearly _there_. Sam’s hand comes down next to Jack’s head to hold Sam up, to allow him to put the blade to the side of Jack’s back.

“Kidneys,” says Sam, and pokes accordingly. Jack remains still. The blade slides up his spine—the very tip of it, sharp and threatening but Sam is careful, always. And when Sam stops and aligns it below Jack’s left shoulder blade, he leans down to talk right into Jack’s red-hot ear and he lowers his hips so Jack can feel his bulge pressing up against his ass, and he says, “Heart. But lungs, mostly,” and then he drags the knife up and _in_ , and Jack startles and he makes a _noise_ , and it stings, and it’s—it’s—

Sam shudders his own breath on top of Jack. Audibly flips his grip on the handle and nuzzles into the crook of Jack’s neck and slides the blunt edge all the way from Jack’s ribs to his right kidney, one long, drawn-out line, and Jack can’t breathe, and Sam whispers,

“Fuck,”

and sucks a bite against Jack’s neck, digs his teeth in like a dog.

Jack moans and the knife clatters to the ground, and Sam’s big hand re-travels the path the blunt edge of his knife had taken, and Jack hikes his hips so Sam can get at the fly of his jeans, can squeeze his dick right through his clothes and groan.

A haze, from there.

Sam’s shuddering mouth and, “Yeah? Yeah?” and Jack nods, gulps his spit and breath and helps to shimmy out of his jeans, his underwear. Sam only drags them down to his knees and they trap him, and Jack gets his elbow nudged back down when he reaches back and below to get a hand on his dick, and he whimpers, pushes his ass up against Sam’s face.

Sam laps at him greedy and deep and Jack thrums all over, forces his bare chest flat to the ground, his palms, his arms. Gasps when Sam grunts into him, hears him working his own jeans open, get his dick out.

Wet already and Sam slurs, “Fuck,” when he comes up, goes right back in. Uses one hand to spread Jack open, truly get at him, and Jack thinks he says, stupidly,

“Put it in,”

and maybe his voice rises on the end like it’s a question instead, a plea, and Sam just groans and shoves himself up to his knees, crowds in.

Sam mutters, “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” and Jack shifts his ass even higher, chases the fat drag of the tip where Sam’s mouth left him so wet. Blunt pressure and it breaks as Sam pushes on, pushes in, and it—hurts, but it doesn’t.

Hot and tight and Jack babbles, “Sam,” and Sam blankets him right away, goes to hands and knees and kisses Jack on the mouth with Jack’s neck all twisted, with Sam’s dick continuously feeding itself deeper and _deeper_. A joined groan.

“Oh God, you feel so good…!”

Jack stammers, “Yes,” for the utter lack of thought. Humps back and up and Sam stutters, gets one elbow underneath himself and pets along the ‘cut’ with his other hand and groans, buried deep. A low grind instead of pulling in and out, just—making room. Riding the high. It’s more than enough. Again, “Sam,” and Jack thinks Sam’s got his eyes closed; gets his hand grabbed and squeezed and their fingers interlace, and Sam keeps rolling their bodies together.

Tell-tale tight, “Can I come inside?” and Jack slurs his consent, and Sam makes a noise because it’s already happening. Bone-deep shudder, tucked away safe and Jack thinks, wildly, how often Dean might have let Sam do this to him.

Sam doesn’t stop him from detangling their fingers so he can get himself off. Shakes apart, still, and groans when Jack’s breath hitches; wrings his too-big hand over Jack’s hip and holds on, rides it out. Not remotely wet enough, so the drag is uncomfortable—but the weight, _oh_. The heat of it.

Sam says, “I love you,” into Jack’s hair, and Jack skips wiping his hand before he clutches it back into Sam’s.

~

Dean utters, “Kinky,” and Jack thinks he can see his smirk in the dark. The flash of those teeth and one of those legs falls out and open and Jack climbs right in, gets his hands—everywhere.

The smooth, firm back of those thighs. The full coarse curls of Dean’s pubes on his balls, his taint, around his asshole.

Jack gasps into Dean’s mouth. Around Dean’s tongue.

Takes barely a turn of his face until there’s Sam, with his mouth waiting just as impatiently, his eyes wild and wide and the ghost of a smile and a,

“Yeah?”

and Jack nods, of course. Of course.

“You wanna get his dick wet for me, Sammy?” and Dean lies back like the girls in the magazines under his bed, gets one arm back and under his head for comfort and tugs at his own dick with the other; feels down his balls while Sam uncaps one of the grimy bottles of lube they’ve stashed all over the room, half-forgot a couple of them at this point, probably. Jack wouldn’t doubt it, wouldn’t judge.

Not with Sam’s tongue in his mouth, Sam’s slick-cold hand on his dick.

“Get some on his ass as well. We’re switching after this,” and Dean snickers for the collective gasp-and-shudder, the impatient stab of Jack’s cock below his balls, not far off the prize. “Easy does it,” he reminds, soft, and holds himself wide with that single hand and opens his legs even _farther_ , and Jack’s already sunken the head inside. Just—snug, and hot, and—oh, Sam’s fingers in his crack, smearing him there as well.

Dean wants to know, “Good?” and Jack has to close his eyes, can barely nod. His hips bump him all the way inside and Sam’s fingers are rigid behind him so he can rub himself on them as he moves. “Better than Sam’s?” and Sam scoffs for that, and Jack can’t help but smile, hopeless.

Dean’s eyes are lidded heavy. Black Sabbath lulls from behind him, the low-turned boombox and the excessive tape collection scattered between Sam’s books and Dean’s former high school papers, and he hums, “Fuck me?” like there’s still any questions between them, like he can’t be sure without a definite answer.

The prospects of the tables turning right after this don’t help Jack much, at all. He ruts immediately, hungry; exhilarated by the fact that whatever he’s doing right now is enough to make Dean’s eyes lose focus, for that smile to drop for a part of that sore-looking mouth. Enough to make Dean squirm, to make him tuck his other hand behind his head as well, out of the way. Giving himself over completely.

“Hey,” and that’s Sam, to his left. Jack opens his mouth, sucks the presented dick inside, gets one of Sam’s hands into his hair and a shallow, “Oh, fuck,” and Jack huffs, and swallows, and can’t think.

Gets his bangs fisted out of his face, the perfect tug of it on his scalp. He smacks into Dean’s ass hard enough that it makes Dean’s dick flop on his stomach; Jack likes that.

Kneels in closer and makes Dean utter, “Fuck,” and Dean’s flushed now, bites his lip and whenever Jack takes a peep, he’s either watching him suck Sam off or keeping his eyes shut all loose. “Doing so good for me,” and a rough hand to Jack’s cheek, praising him, the hollow suck of his mouth for Dean’s brother, “good fucking boy, Jack…!”

Dean makes him pull out, makes him climb up and sucks him so good Jack fears his balls are never gonna be able to replenish _that_. Trembles with his hands clutched in Dean’s hair and Dean just hums, proceeds to push two of his fingers up Jack’s ass with Jack still jerking away in his mouth.

Sam squeezes another dollop of lube and Jack sees stars; Dean’s knuckles push up against him and Sam’s big but this is _different_.

“You let him keep using that mouth, big guy,” and Jack nods while they arrange him—on his back, and Sam climbs him right away, knees planted above Jack’s shoulders and his dick looks _massive_ from below. One hand on it so he can feed it down Jack’s waiting mouth; Jack splutters. Dean pushes his legs up for him and Jack is free to curl his arms backwards around Sam’s thighs, can hold onto him. Hums, already filled, still shaking from his orgasm, as Dean lines himself up, shushes him sweet.

John’s not home, of course, but the window is cracked.

“You like that?” Sam, dark, from above; Jack nods around his dick, blinks with overwhelm for both of them, pushing him open. Curls in and around Sam, flutters for Dean’s delighted groan—the insane stretch of it, the soothing wet thumb up-down his taint, around his too-taut rim. “Bet you’re so tight on him. Bet you’re a fucking _vice_ on his dick right now.”

Jack’s moan is muffled while Dean agrees, close-by and low, “Worse than you were back in sixth grade.”

Dean’s got mercy on him and starts out slow. More pushing than anything else, getting Jack used to it. Breaks him open soft and croons about how Jack better take care of his little brother right, better make him nut real good. Sam huffs and fucks Jack’s face in long, deep strokes. When Jack half-opens his teary eyes, Dean’s nuzzled up to Sam’s face, presses lost kisses along that throat, that ear, shoulder. Close; beautiful.

Jack is let up for a beat somewhere around Dean being done pussyfooting around. Half-done strokes that drag so so well, slop his dick up Jack’s ass nasty and wet, easier and easier. Firmer. Dean grunts and drops his forehead against his little brother’s back.

“Get back in there, c’mon. Make him take that pretty dick, Sammy,” and Jack looks up just in time to see those fingers pinching that nipple, the grit of Sam’s teeth and Sam, angling his dick back in. He feeds it past Jack’s sloppy tonsils, easy, and fucks in, greedy.

Dean jerks Jack’s dick for him a couple times just to let it go again, to drag Jack’s focus back to the stupid-deep pounding he’s laying onto him by now. Hauls Jack up by the hips and just drives into him over and over, chases his own high while Sam’s breath comes sharp like he’s on the run, like he’s not far off at all.

And, yeah: “I—fuck, _Dean_ ,” and Jack keeps his throat open and watches on as Sam’s abs pull tight, and he groans, and he comes thick and plenty and something rocks him forward and against Jack’s face—Dean’s hand, maybe, his fingers tucking deep and Sam squirms, caught, and gasps for _sorry, fuck, you okay? Sorry, Jack_ , like Jack would have to be worried about when he’s with them.

Jack feels weightless when Dean handles him; just hauls him up and around and he’s a curled little ball now, keeps his back straight so Dean can rut into him right, can slap into him and groan like he’s proud and tell Jack _that’s it, there’s my good fucking boy_ , and Jack gulps his whimpers into the sheets and Sam’s hands and arms and Sam’s hair, and he doesn’t come again, not exactly—doesn’t feel like it usually does, at least.

When Dean pulls out, there’s that immediate rush of wet; his own embarrassed whines and Dean’s gentle shushes, the labored mixed breath of the three of them.

Tissues, a playful clap to Jack’s ass. “Move over.”

Dean underneath him, sweaty and godly and Sam tucked right up, half-dangling off the bed; monkey-cling.

Sam slurs, “You stink,” and Dean goads, “You love it,” and Jack can rest his cheek on Dean’s chest and smile to himself, in the dark.

~

Sam crosses his arms, smacks the second half of the sour band between his teeth. Says, dismissive, “Like the old man ever notices _anything_ ,” and Jack nods with red ears because, well, okay, chews his share and keeps watching Dean crawl around underneath the car.

Hollered, echoed: “Sam gets off on it,” and Sam kicks a can of oil at him, or at least tries.

Insists, “I don’t,”

but Dean laughs: “Totally do.”

They’re not supposed to be here, OSHA and all that; Jack understands as much. But Sam was bored and they were out of food and Uncle Bobby always has some snacks around. And as much as Sam visibly enjoys teasing his brother: Dean in his coveralls is a sight to behold.

Ever since he can imagine, Jack wanted to become a veterinarian. Dad would prefer him to join the army, the police, do something valuable for once, become a real pillar of society. Maybe a mechanic, like Dean or his dad. Like Uncle Bobby. Do something with his hands and metal—Dad would probably like that.

Sam finds him in the little yard, by Miracle’s doghouse. Drops down next to Jack and joins in on scratching the old boy’s presented belly. Coos, “Who’s a good boy, Miracle? Are you my good boy? Are _you_ my good boy? Yes, you are,” and the sun is at that high point where it’ll dip low again soon and Jack doesn’t want to leave yet. Doesn’t want to go.

He sighs; cards through the dog’s fur. Sam’s hand finds Jack’s. He carefully nudges at the cast around Jack’s ring and middle finger.

Sam jokes, soft, “Don’t tell me you’re jealous,” and Jack laughs for that, a little.

~

Jack’s boyfriend is pretty awesome.

Smart and handsome and strong. Best grades, theatre club, debate club. He said he used to do soccer in his old school but he’s just not into it anymore, y’know.

Jack keeps his hand over his own mouth to stay quiet while Sam rides him in reverse, in the hidden dark between off-smelling costumes—of course you can have the key, sweetheart, just bring it back to me before the end of the week, okay?

Too wide of a range and Jack’s dick slips out, and Jack gasps and scrambles to get it back inside. Catches Sam’s upside-down face underneath that armpit, flushed and dreamy and he’s working them fast as soon as he can, just as hard as before. Jack swallows his sigh; can’t pluck his hands back off Sam’s ass.

Sam turns around so they can kiss when he comes.

Weak knees and a light head. Sam’s hand in Jack’s, Sam’s spit on Jack’s tongue, Sam’s knife in Jack’s pocket.

The pavement is hot and Jack doesn’t mind the holes in his shoes. Doesn’t mind the sweat soaking the neckline of his shirt and he just walks, and walks, and walks.


End file.
